


Platonic Showering

by inkinmyheartandonthepage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Mentioned Mycroft Holmes, Platonic Relationships, Romance, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6754729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkinmyheartandonthepage/pseuds/inkinmyheartandonthepage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times John and Sherlock shared a platonic shower and the 1 time it wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Platonic Showering

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be working on my own stuff but these to dorks in love wouldn't leave me alone and this idea was too good to pass up so enjoy!

**Platonic Showering**

**#1**

John didn’t mind Sherlock’s experiments. It kept the ( _only one in the world. I invented it_ ) consulting detective busy from shooting bullets into the walls and Mrs. Hudson adding the damage to their rent.

 

What John _did_ mind, however, was the fact that they tended to creep across every surface until there was no space left and John was forced to dismantle the experiment whether it was finished or not. Today was one of those mornings.

 

Sherlock, who hadn’t had a case for the last sixteen hours, had been working on some chemical experiment that had somehow grown across the whole kitchen. Glass containers held different colour liquids, some sitting still while others were bubbling and churning viciously. It smelled like Bart’s hospital – sterile and a top grade disinfectant.

 

John surveyed the site and sighed. All he wanted was a cup of tea and some scrambled eggs.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Must you shout, John,” Sherlock drawled from the living room.

 

John peeked into the living room from the kitchen and saw Sherlock sprawled out in his armchair. He was wearing his pajamas and the silk blue robe, his feet bare. He had his head tipped back and his eyes closed, exposing the pale column of his neck.

 

“Your experiment has taken over again,” John said, glaring at Sherlock.

 

“I need that space,” Sherlock said.

 

“And I need to eat breakfast.”

 

“Dull.”

 

“Right,” John muttered. There was no way he was forging his breakfast for Sherlock’s experiment.

 

He started to dismantle it, piece by piece, paying extra careful to the vials that held liquid. Silently he cursed Sherlock and his need to experiment constantly without properly labeling what the hell was in them so John was always constantly guessing.

 

He should have known that handling them was going to end in disaster. It was that type of morning. He was attempting to remove one of the less volatile looking beakers when his fingers slipped and the beaker smashed.

 

The liquid washed over the table and right down the front of his shirt.

 

“Damn!” John shouted.

 

Before he could even go into doctor mode long pale fingers were gripping his shoulders and pushing him out of the kitchen. Those same fingers were pulling at his shirt, deftly undoing the buttons. The bathroom door slammed open and John was shoved into the shower, cold water blasting over him.

 

Sherlock was right behind him.

 

The two were drenched in an instant but John hardly concentrated on the ice-cold water while Sherlock and him worked his shirt off. They managed it and Sherlock tossed the shirt into the bathroom sink.

 

“Did it touch you skin?” Sherlock demanded. His curls were dripping over his forehead, somehow making his cheekbones sharper.

 

“No,” John said, double-checking and rubbing his hands over his softening belly. “No, I’m fine.”

 

“There is none on your pants,” Sherlock said. “But I would take them off just in case.”

 

John worked his belt off and struggled to shove them down his hips.

 

Sherlock helped, crouching in the small bath/shower and allowed John to brace his hands on his shoulders as he stepped out of them. They too were tossed into the sink.

 

“Those were my good pants, Sherlock,” John said as Sherlock stood once again. He glared at the taller man.

 

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” Sherlock said, sounding a little uncertain.

 

“Today.”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

John sighed and turned off the ice-cold water. The two stood there silently, water dripping off them. John blinked as his current situation. Sherlock’s t-shirt was plastered to his skin, outlining the very firm and shockingly lean muscular body of the consulting detective. He swallowed thickly.

 

“Never tell Mrs. Hudson about this,” John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock just gave him a confused frown.

 

 

**#2**

It took John a couple of days to stop flushing around Sherlock. The consulting detective had thought he was coming down with something and had proposed that he take his temperature.

 

They never mentioned the shower incident but Sherlock’s experiments had thankfully disappeared and (for the time being) vanished into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock had also made him a cup of tea when John had managed to change into some warmer clothes. John accepted the apology and drank the whole cup.

 

John never really thought they would find themselves back in that situation again. He had honestly thought it would be a one off event that he could file under things he did with Sherlock but not his girlfriends. The list was already double sided and John was more worried that it didn’t worry him.

 

Months had passed with cases here and there when John found himself back in a shower with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock had of course run off after their killer, John hurrying after him but unable to catch up with the detective’s long legs. So John had been too late to stop the killer from smashing Sherlock over the head with a glass bottle he had picked up in an alley way and tossing him into a dumpster.

 

John did, however, have enough time to shoot the killer in the leg to stop him from running. He had called Lestrade, put another bullet in the killers foot to stop him from attempting to limp away and then hauled Sherlock out of the dumpster.

 

By the time the police arrived John had checked over Sherlock, cursing him for running off _again_ , and concluded the detective had a concussion. John had given both their statements (Sherlock having fallen silent after his first lisp) and told Lestrade he would text him later.

 

Sherlock stunk.

 

It was a miracle that a taxi picked them up. Sherlock was covered in various amounts of off food and other rubbish that was thrown out by the restaurant close by. He would need all his clothes to be dried clean, including his coat.

 

As soon as John paid the cabbie he ushered Sherlock up stairs and straight into the bathroom. He stripped the consulting detective off his coat and suit jacket and fiddled with the dials off the shower until it was nice and warm.

 

“I can do it,” Sherlock said as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

 

John almost believed him until Sherlock stepped into the shower (in nothing but his underwear) and nearly slipped head first into the wall. Resigned that this would be the second time he found himself showering with his flat mate, John stripped down to his boxers and stepped into the shower and helped Sherlock wash soy sauce out of his curls.

 

And if Sherlock almost purred at the touch, well, neither of them mentioned it.

 

**#3**

The third time they showered platonically John was going into shock. As a doctor he could identify all the symptoms; clammy cold skin, a rapid but weak pulse, irregular breathing, thirst. But he just couldn’t get his body to do _anything_ to help himself.

 

“John? John? Can you hear me?” Sherlock’s deep baritone voice cut through John’s internal panic.

 

“Yes,” he gasped out.

 

“What’s happening?” Sherlock demanded.

 

If John weren’t so panicked he would have smiled at the detectives worry. But he currently was so he said, “Shock.”

 

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “What do I do?”

 

“Need to warm up,” John gasped.

 

He thanked God that Sherlock wasn’t an idiot and strong arms were lifting up under his armpits and he was being dragged. He couldn’t quite focus, having no idea where Sherlock was taking him.

 

He had been kidnapped, taking to some abandoned warehouse. He had been drugged with something that wasn’t over the counter and most certainly, probably, made in some meth addicts toilet. John had felt extremely queasy the moment he had woken up and had promptly vomited on one of his kidnappers.

 

That hadn’t gone down well.

 

John knew that Sherlock would arrive eventually and he had been right. Maybe he had been a little too late in John’s opinion – he could feel the blood sliding down over his lips and cheeks.

 

Lost in his own thoughts it didn’t twig that he had stopped moving and Sherlock was now divesting him of his clothing. His mouth seemed numb but he eventually managed to stutter out, “What are you doing?”

 

“Getting you warm the fastest way possible,” Sherlock said.

 

John heard water starting and he was being directed under the spray. The warmth of the water was too hot on his clammy skin. He hissed and tried to step out from under it but Sherlock held him still.

 

Eventually the water turned warm, his skin heating up. The confusion was washing away and the pain of his wounds was setting in as the adrenalin left his body. His heartbeat was steady and strong once more and John was now aware that they weren’t alone.

 

“Now people will talk,” John muttered as he leant his forehead on Sherlock’s chest.

 

“People do little else,” Sherlock muttered, his voice vibrating through John.

 

“What the hell is going on here?” Lestrade demanded.

 

John groaned into Sherlock chest.

 

“He was going into shock obviously,” Sherlock said, not moving an inch. “Surely you know how to remedy that?”

 

At Lestrade’s flustered response John smiled into Sherlock’s chest.

 

**#4**

The fourth time was all Sherlock’s fault.

 

They had broken into a suspect’s house and were snooping around the flat, looking for evidence.

 

“Shouldn’t we have waited for Lestrade?” John asked, his voice barley above a whisper. He shone his torch around the darkened living room, trying to locate Sherlock in the darkness.

 

“Did you really want to stand out in the cold waiting for Lestrade who may or may not have come?” Sherlock asked.

 

John sighed. He hated that Sherlock made sense. “Did you at least call him?”

 

“No point,” Sherlock said as he spun around in a circle. “I’m sure Mycroft would have alerted him by now.”

 

John rolled his eyes. Of course the elder brother would know exactly what they were up too.

 

The sound of the keys turning in the door made both men freeze. In an instant the two had switched off their torches and were hurrying through the house, running into the last room at the end of the hall. The bathroom.

 

“Quick,” Sherlock hissed and stepped into the bath/shower.

 

John reluctantly got into the shower with Sherlock and pulled the curtain around them to shield them from view. Neither man moved but it was only a small bath and so they were pressed up against one another. Each silent breath could be felt through one another.

 

They listened to the sounds of their suspect moving through their home. John closed his eyes and prayed that they wouldn’t come into the bathroom. As they waited John reflected that once again he was in the shower with Sherlock. He honestly wasn’t that surprised anymore.

 

But up close he could smell Sherlock. Smell their shared soap, their shared shampoo that they both used. Somehow the combination smelt so much better on the consulting detective then it did the blogger. John found himself inhaling the detectives scent and squeezed his eyes tighter. He was just glad that for once the water wasn’t turned on because he wasn’t sure how much more he could take seeing Sherlock’s shirt plastered to his skin.

 

“I think they’ve gone,” Sherlock said.

 

They waited a few minuets before opening the curtain and stepping out of the tub.

 

John almost wished the suspect hadn’t left.

 

**#5**

The fifth time John doesn’t remember but Lestrade had later shown him a picture on his phone of John pushing Sherlock into the shower, fully clothed.

 

John blamed Sherlock’s inability to calculate just how much alcohol they could actually handle.

 

**\+ the 1 time it wasn’t platonic**

“Come shower with me,” John blurted out.

 

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and frowned at John. For a moment neither of them spoke, silently letting their eyes roam over one another – Sherlock trying to deduce if John was serious or not and John trying to figure out if Sherlock would say yes.

 

The taller of the men opened his mouth several time before saying, “What?”

 

John suppressed a grin. It was the first time that he had managed to stump Sherlock. The man’s brain was always on and always had the last word. _Always._ He shifted from foot to foot, clearing his throat.

 

“You heard me.”

 

Sherlock blinked. “You want to shower with me?”

 

“Look, over the past few months we’ve ended up in a shower together, mostly because of you,” John said. “Well, this time I want it to be… on purpose. It’s just that…being in those showers with you made me think,” John said.

 

“Made you think what?” Sherlock asked.

 

Panic started to build up in John and he swallowed thickly. “That, well, that there was something more than just platonic friendship between us.”

 

“So what you’re saying is that through those platonic showers you have come to the conclusion that you have non-platonic feelings for me,” Sherlock said.

 

“Basically, yeah,” John said.

 

Sherlock broke into a bright, genuine smile. “Took you long enough, Doctor.” He stood and started un-buttoning his shirt. “Come along, John.”

 

John stared at him with his mouth open and only did he snap it shut when he heard the water start to run. “Oh you bad man.”


End file.
